


Under Lock and Key

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: So many things in Riza Hawkeye's life have needed to be locked away. Roy Mustang was never an exception.





	Under Lock and Key

**Author's Note:**

> In some ways this piece can be read as a companion to ["Every Regret Burns the Same."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027262) It's an AU with a near-identical premise and contains a few ideas I had originally wanted to include when I began writing "Every Regret"; unfortunately, the structure I developed for that fic meant I ended up scrapping them. But there was one in particular I just couldn't let go, which became the seed and middle scene of this piece. I wanted to do it justice, so I wrote it a story of its own.

Riza Hawkeye thought about walking past the mess table where Captain Maes Hughes was sitting, and stepping on the spoon he’d deliberately knocked to the floor for good measure. She had slept poorly the night before, and the tea she’d brewed an hour ago had done nothing to raise her spirits, certainly not enough to match his. But she bent to retrieve the spoon instead and took the open seat across from him. “Hello, Captain. When did you get back?”

Hughes looked slightly more disheveled than usual, his voice scratchy and difficult to make out amid the general chatter of the cafeteria. “Hey, Riza. Last night. Late—way too late. In fact, I’m still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream I’m having.”

He yawned, then, as Riza took a forkful of potatoes. “If it is, I’d prefer to have a little less work on my plate today.”

“Sorry, can’t manage it. We’ve still gotta keep the imaginary government running smoothly. Alas, you’re another casualty of the system.”

To her surprise, her smile was genuine. Hughes was a painfully acute reminder of things she couldn’t allow herself to forget, and she was pretty sure she knew where their conversation would lead eventually, but he was still good company. “How was your trip?”

“Oh, fine, fine. I don’t think Gracia’s mother likes me much.” He grinned, rubbing his jaw. “Cracked a few too many jokes for her taste.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Unbelievable, right? Besides, she’s a dear who I suspect would rather I did any sort of work except for the government.”

“I think that means she likes you.”

“I think she’s prejudiced against office workers. Her father was an actuary. By all accounts his stories could bore you to death.”

The soldier a few seats down tossed his napkin onto his tray and got up from the table. As soon as he was gone, Hughes leaned in. His voice was still casual, even though his volume had dropped: “She doesn’t realize that manning a desk in Central can be terribly exciting. Tomorrow afternoon, for example, I get to go interview a war criminal.”

Riza set her fork down rather hard. Hughes had never struck her as irresponsible, except for the covert phone calls—and those were a large exception—but this was a new folly. “You don’t think it’ll raise any suspicions for you to visit an ex-officer convicted of sedition?”

“Well, I’m in investigations, so lucky for me this falls within my jurisdiction. There’s been a series of small fires at Central Prison in recent months—nothing too dangerous, no injuries—but you can understand why we’d be curious about whether Roy Mustang was involved.”

“And he was your friend.”

Hughes smiled sadly. “He’s still my friend.”

“Well, as long you’ve considered the risk,” said Riza flatly.

Hughes hesitated, blinking rapidly and glancing around them. “You can come with me, if you want,” he said, even quieter than before. “I told them to expect two people.”

Riza swallowed hard, trying to ignore the twin jolts of indignation and imagination. To focus, instead, on how Hughes’ presumptiveness had done nothing to change reality.

Her imagination had been what her father termed _overactive_ during her childhood. She had played being a sailor, a pirate queen, anything her mind could think of that was fantastical and adult and free. Once, she had been a soldier; but Berthold had caught her that time, and told her off.

Hughes’ suggestion had the same intriguing air of those temptations, the opportunity to play at being a Riza Hawkeye who would accompany him. She could almost imagine—

Riza slammed the door on those thoughts.

It was still an impossibility. Hughes had urged her on like this before, with the weekly phone calls he made to Central Prison. An outside line, a fake name, he had given her all the role necessitated—but it was still too risky for Riza. The twinge of guilt as she spoke was so small she could almost ignore it completely. “I can’t make it.”

Almost. Looking Hughes straight in the face, it was difficult to pretend she couldn’t see she was hurting him, too.

But Hughes had never been inclined to waste time wallowing. “I’m supposed to be there at five,” he said, shrugging. “Just in case—”

His gaze darted over her shoulder, and he scowled. “Sheesh, doesn’t he ever let you out of his sight?”

Riza turned. Kimblee was already coming up beside her, his boots squeaking slightly on the polished floor.

“Riza. Captain Hughes.”

“Sir,” said Riza.

Hughes was giving Kimblee a look that would have made a cadet wither. Kimblee smiled politely and returned his attention to Riza.

“When you’ve eaten, I need your help with an acquisition form.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you in my office soon, then.”

Then, before she could say anything else, he had pinched a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. His fingertips brushed against the delicate skin there, and she shivered—but by then he was already walking away.

It was over so quickly that she might have convinced herself she had imagined it, except that Hughes’ hard stare was now aimed at her.

“Something the matter, Captain?” she said, more tersely than she had intended. Hughes was no fool, and Kimblee should have known better.

“I didn’t realize your hair had gotten so long,” said Hughes, lifting his mug to his mouth.

Riza bristled at his assumption, unvoiced but still obvious. The suggestion that she—that Kimblee—

What did Hughes know, anyway?

She got to her feet. “Well, the imaginary government isn’t going to run itself. If your dream isn’t going to cut me any slack, I should get back to work.

“Oh, and about the hair…I’m actually planning on cutting it soon. Myself.”

 

***

 

“You need to be more discreet,” said Riza, clambering off.

Kimblee groaned, grabbing at himself to keep the condom from spilling. “Take a moment to enjoy the post-coital bliss, Riza, for once…or at least allow me the chance.”

The late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the open window washed Kimblee’s bedroom in warm yellow. The books on the shelves stood neatly at attention, watching silently with the new wooden set of drawers and its matched desk. The gray silk sheets were mussed, and Kimblee rumpled them further when he stretched his legs with a small grunt of satisfaction.

Riza knew that she ought to let him enjoy the full measure of that bliss—the spike in pleasure, the calming buzz in his nerves—but she was feeling none too charitable. She was still on edge, despite the orgasm that should have done away with those feelings. “People are going to suspect something if we’re not more careful.”

Kimblee blinked at the ceiling. “Captain Hughes said something to you.”

Riza paused in hunting for her discarded clothing. The room was warm, and the insides of her elbows and the backs of her knees were slick with sweat. “You did that in front of Hughes on purpose. To taunt him.”

“That sounds rather childish.”

“Not childish…” She winced when she crouched to pick up her underwear. “Jealous, maybe.”

She didn’t quite know why she had said it, but she was pleased all the same when irritation flashed across Kimblee’s face. He sat up and maneuvered himself to standing. “I’m not threatened by Captain Hughes, so no, not jealous. But you do assume the worst about me.”

He shuffled into the bathroom to clean up. Riza’s thighs trembled as she pulled her pants on. She wished he would get on top more often.

“Not everyone is as stupid or willing to look the other way as you think,” she called after him, trying to assert some control over her voice.

“You’re giving them far too much credit.”

“Am I? If you keep touching me like that in public, we’ll both be in trouble.”

“Your logic is flawed.”

He reemerged, still naked, and crossed his arms.

“Why are so certain you’ll receive any blame for this misconduct? Frankly, no one would think it was you who came to me.”

The first time—

It had been the end of an exhausting day, four or five months ago. Sunset in his office, a stack of paperwork on his desk. Their hands had brushed when she reached across him for something, and it had been far too easy to let him lean in and kiss her. The unease perpetually stretched taut between them had snapped in an unexpected direction, and they had gone for it right there, Kimblee pulling her into his lap on his chair.

Incidentally, that had also been the first day Hughes had confided in her that he was in regular contact with Roy, and invited her to speak to him as well.

On her list of regrets, fucking Kimblee didn’t even rank. But she wished she hadn’t done it in the office.

“He’s not going to think I came to you, no,” said Riza. “He’s going to think—”

She stopped. If she gave voice to that terrible thought, _she_ would be the one who had put it in his head.

Still, Kimblee understood. He rummaged through his jacket pockets for his cigarettes. “I’m aghast that he considers me capable of such things.” He didn’t sound aghast, though—merely bored. “You did flinch quite vigorously when I touched you. What am I supposed to think of that, hm?”

“You’re free to think whatever you like. It won’t change the consequences for fraternization.”

“There’s your other faulty assumption: I’m not going to face consequences. There are few who would be willing to report me, and none who would prosecute. Hero, and all that.”

He watched her process that, a little smile curling his lips around his cigarette as he raised the lighter. “Dirty little system, isn’t it?”

Riza didn’t have an answer. She finished adjusting her bra and began turning her shirt the right way out.

“Wait a moment.”

The thick scent of smoke filled her nose as he came up entirely too close behind her. He smoothed her hair away from the back of her neck. “It’s getting long...”

Then he stood there looking.

The day the war had ended, Roy had pressed his palm against Riza’s left shoulder blade. _There are a few more notes to erase to be certain_ , he’d said, _but this should be enough to ensure..._ Then the breathtaking pain; and, later, a hideous burn that needed to be dressed twice a day, and would eventually heal into a large, unsightly patch.

They’d never had the chance to finish the job. Roy had whispered to her in the infirmary about his plans for changing the country, and evidently she hadn’t been the only one he’d confided in. She still didn’t know—had resigned herself to never discovering—who, exactly, had reported him, but evidently Roy had placed trust in at least one wrong person. And as she’d lay recovering in an uncomfortably lumpy hospital bed, Roy had been sentenced to life in prison.

Her only choice had been to hope they had done enough. She hadn’t let Kimblee see her back the first time they’d had sex, or the second, but the third time she had realized there was no point in delaying further. She had taken her shirt off unceremoniously, and in fact Kimblee hadn’t commented until after they were done.

 _A pity_ , he’d said.

She’d tried to ruin more herself, once, but had only succeeded in filling her apartment with the scent of burning hair: the shiny pink skin had scabbed and healed within a few weeks, leaving the ink discolored but still readable.

Roy had promised it would be enough. But when Kimblee stared…

Well, she never let him fuck her from behind.

“Are you finished?” she said, extricating her hands from the twisted shirt.

Kimblee’s cool fingertip touched her. Riza stiffened, biting her lip, as he traced the ragged edge of the burn. His sigh was quiet, but heavy with some emotion she couldn’t identify, something that set the back of her neck prickling.  Sometimes she wished she had remained ignorant of the true depth and reach of his feelings; his passions, few as they were, had the tendency to consume. She was abruptly, keenly aware of the cigarette he still held, its smoke slithering out to coil lazily around her.

When he had completed the track, his finger stopped but didn’t pull away, and Riza heard him swallow.

“Why don’t you ever let me do this to you?”

Riza jerked from his touch.

Never from behind.

Kimblee took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette, watching with a little smile as she yanked her shirt back on. It would be easy enough to speak the words already gathering insistently behind her lips. If she could just release the first one the whole sentence would follow, the little leak through which the flood would come roaring. _Maybe we should never do this again_.

But she could already hear his response, as clear and cold as if he whispered in her ear:

_If that’s what you want, Riza. It’s always been your choice._

 

***

 

In the end, it was simple enough. The unease squirming in her stomach hadn’t gone away after she had fucked Kimblee, and it continued writhing there all morning. So when Kimblee dismissed her early that afternoon, and told her not to worry about driving him home, it was easy, easy, easy, to nod and salute, turn right instead of left leaving the building, and march off through the sunny humid streets to Central Prison.

Perhaps her perspective was skewed, but it seemed like visiting Roy Mustang couldn’t possibly jeopardize her career more than sleeping casually with her direct superior. Not as long as she was never found out. Not as long as the rules could be bent, or outright broken.

And purging the feelings was more important, anyway. In the end, she had only ever been able to think of one way to absolve herself.

 

***

 

Roy looked thin and worn, with purple half-moons beneath his eyes and hair hanging shaggy over his ears. His hands, shackled in a pair of wooden handcuffs, were fidgety, though whether from nervousness or passion or some other emotion, Riza couldn’t tell.

Hughes wasn’t there.

Even as she had made the decision to come, Riza had been resting on the assurance of his presence. The safety of having another person in the room to cut the tension that hung like a guilty fog between them. With nothing but the chilly air and the blank page of her notebook, Riza was unbearably conscious of the weight of Roy’s gaze as he tracked over her face.

A month or so after his arrival at the Hawkeye house, Roy had caught her whispering to herself in the pantry, acting the part of a hungry thief. He had asked her about it with curiosity instead of condemnation, and Riza been emboldened to confess she sometimes played at being other people, even though she was fairly too old for it by then.

She had never done it in front of him again, but here, now, she felt a queer sense of performance: prisoner and interrogator, strangers, two people who had very little to say to each other, and even fewer words to say it with.

At least the part about not having words was true.

“I—” Roy cleared his throat, and the raspy, disused quality of his voice lessened. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Your hair’s gotten so long.”

Her hand went to it automatically. Why did men pay so much attention to such things? “I haven’t thought about it recently.”

“Oh,” said Roy, blinking. “I guess I had wondered if it was part of a disguise.”

 _There’s no point in such trickery,_ she almost said. She hadn’t done that sort of thing in years…

The tea set had belonged to her mother, so Riza had not been allowed to touch it, not even to dust. Roy, of course, had been bolder in the house, and had insisted they open the china cabinet. _Just to look_ , he’d said. But he’d handed her a saucer, and somehow in the handing it had slipped through her fingers and landed with a _thump_ on the carpet.

 _It’s not even scratched_ , he’d reassured her, _and he never even looks at it,_ but Riza had felt guilty and exposed anyway. He had caught her crying out by the well that evening, though this time he’d had the good sense not to confront her.

 _I wasn’t crying_ , she’d said when he brought it up later. _That wasn’t me. You must have seen someone else._

It did seem a bit silly now. Berthold, as far as she knew, had never examined the tea set again.

And Riza was playing pretend with the man sitting across from her again as though she was still a little girl.

“Roy.”

He looked up.

Her throat was heavy with what might have been and the things that had kept them from being. But the things between them, the secrets they had lived and shared, were still undeniably real, in a way that the fantasy was not.

“I had expected Hughes to arrive first.”

Roy’s mouth turned down as he tried to hold the smile back, and then his face split in the same warm grin she remembered, a beam of light through the haze of shame. “So had I.”

He was almost apologetic. It didn’t matter that their lives were steeped in bitterness; Riza could have laughed—

Footsteps sounded from the corridor outside. A low, pleasant voice said, “Thank you,” and then the door swung open.

The magnitude of Riza’s folly hit her all at once, stealing the breath from her lungs.

The world, then, was much smaller than she had thought. No room for make-believe, not even for things that might have been. She could almost reach out and touch the walls of her enclosure.

“My apologies, Officer Hawkeye. My meeting ran a bit late.”

Kimblee slid into the chair beside her, seemingly oblivious to the sudden rigidity in her spine, or the way Roy’s teeth had cemented themselves together.

“Mustang. How are you faring?”

“What are you doing here, Kimblee?”

“I’m here to assist my officer in questioning you.” Had Riza imagined the slight possessive pressure on the word?

Perhaps not, because Roy’s frown deepened as he demanded, “ _Your_ officer?”

“Yes. Riza Hawkeye was reassigned to my command following my return to Central.”

Roy clenched his jaw.

Kimblee seemed unbothered by the obvious displays of hostility. He looked at the untouched notebook, then sardonically at Riza. “What have you learned so far?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” Riza admitted, her throat dry.

“How lucky I’m here now.” Kimblee steepled his fingers. “Mustang, you’re certainly aware of the epidemic of fires at this institution. Four of them now, the most recent set just three days ago.”

“Of course I’m aware. I’ve been interrogated by the warden each time.”

“Surely you can understand why we’d be concerned about any potential involvement from you.”

“Obviously I wasn’t involved, or they would have found out by now.”

“That’s a very pretty conclusion, but the concern remains. Your alchemy was so destructive…” Kimblee’s voice had taken on a purring tone, like he was speaking of something precious and tender. “…well, I don’t need to connect the dots for you. The Amestrian military is not thrilled with the idea of a prisoner holding the power to blast away his cage.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how it works,” said Roy. Each word was tight and bitter, forced through his teeth. “I need something to make a spark. They make it something of a priority to keep combustible things away from me. I don’t even get cigarettes.”

He was getting angrier, as Kimblee cooled into even greater impassiveness. Riza, too, felt herself retreating into mask-like smoothness. The pen lay still beside her hand, the paper still blank. She watched.

“When your possessions were reclaimed following your arrest, no information pertaining to flame alchemy was recovered. No notes, not even ciphers.”

So that was what this was really about. Had they always intended to send Kimblee? He and Roy had worked together, after all. A sudden chill sent a shiver crawling across Riza’s scalp. Kimblee leaned forward.

“Let me be frank. The Amestrian government is willing to trade an awful lot for the privilege of understanding your alchemy.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“If you cooperate, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.” He turned sorrowful. “I’m afraid nothing could secure your release, but I would go so far as to suggest you would no longer be subject to these frequent interrogations.”

Roy scoffed. “So you’ve got the leverage to stop the fire-starters, is that it? You’d stop them being set?”

Kimblee said nothing, and an awful suspicion flared in Riza’s mind. Could he possibly—?

But Roy’s chin was already jerking up proudly. “The answer is no.”

Kimblee sighed, a tiny exasperated breath from his nose. “Do I need to put it more simply?”

Roy gritted his teeth. “I said no. Is there a simpler way to say that?”

Kimblee considered Roy for a moment, his face glacially serene.

“Mustang, it’s your choice to divulge this information, or to keep it to yourself and let it die with you. In truth, I’m the one at your mercy; you hold all the power in this negotiation. You are the sole keeper of the secrets of flame alchemy. After all”—his breath caught almost imperceptibly—“as you well know, I can’t learn the formulae from her.”

It took Roy a long second to understand. In that time, Riza could read every drop of anguish as the emotion crystallized on his face. She felt curiously distant from it, as though observing a stranger whose grief was neither recognizable nor relevant to her life. It was easy enough to catch the thread of his thoughts, but Riza sensed little more than a prickle, a tiny suspicion of impending danger.

Kimblee’s gaze flicked between the two of them like he couldn’t decide which one was more interesting. Roy was staring at him.

“You—”

Roy leapt to his feet and lunged around the side of the table. Kimblee stood at almost the same instant, so that Riza had to dodge to move around him. She drove her shoulder into the wooden shackles with a loud _crack_ and a sudden burst of pain, and Roy stumbled back. Riza squared herself in front of Kimblee, blocking his body with her own, one hand on her gun.

“Don’t, Roy.”

Kimblee was at her back, his breathing slow and even, and Roy was staring at her with eyes wide and dark with despair.

“Hawkeye—”

“Stop this.”

Kimblee shifted slightly, so that his body pressed closer to her. Her shoulder throbbed.

“Hawkeye,” Roy said again, his voice catching.

“Don’t be rash, Mustang,” said Kimblee. “It’s clear you’re no longer of a mind to have a _productive_ conversation, but don’t make things any worse for yourself…”

Riza saw Roy give up, his shoulders collapsing, and this time she felt it. She wanted to step away from Kimblee and go to Roy instead. She wanted to tell him—so many things—

—but the space between them was vast, and cold, and empty, and silent.

 

***

 

It was later than Riza had realized, and the streets were crowded in the last burst of light from the setting sun. Kimblee had his arms crossed in the back seat, fingers drumming a thoughtful rhythm on his sleeve. Other than that, he was as composed as ever on the slow drive to his apartment.

Was he even going to try to defend himself? Try to fit his behavior into some grand theory of the world’s workings? Surely he had that justification ready at hand, an explanation rooted deep in his warped philosophy for why Mustang’s defiance had necessitated a decisive response.

Spiteful, jealous man.

“Mustang’s always been so easy to read,” he said at last. “He wears every passing thought impulse openly, even those he should keep to himself…”

There was real irritation in his voice this time.

“Why do people keep thinking me guilty of such things?”

Over and over, Roy’s face rose in her mind, his eyes darker with anguish and the lines of his face etched hard and deep. Riza squeezed the steering wheel and imagined it snapping.

She pulled up to the curb, but didn’t get out to open the passenger door. Kimblee made no move to exit the car either. He was watching her in the rearview mirror.

“I expend so much effort, and I conduct myself well enough, don’t I? You don’t think I’d debase myself with such an act.”

In the fast-fading sunlight his eyes were reflected hard and resentful.  

Hers, too.                   

 

***

 

In his bedroom, Riza let Kimblee push her against the wall. It was dark in there with the curtains drawn, so that she might have been nowhere; no other people in the building or on the street outside, only the familiar comforts of his sweat and his tongue, and the little breaths he snatched between kisses. His hands wandered over her chest, her stomach, her waist. With every shift, Riza felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into the security of resolve. She might not ever do this again, so she might as well get what she wanted out of it.

When he reached the gun at her hip, she whimpered and arched against him. He hesitated.

“Don’t—” She sounded breathless, even to her ears. “—don’t hurt me.”

Kimblee’s mouth opened in surprise, and he stared at her for a long second before a hard, desperate yearning rose in his face. He pulled the gun from its holster without looking away from her, set it aside on the chest of drawers, and then his hand darted back and wrapped around her throat.

Riza’s body went traitorously hot, but he only slid his hand up and around, gathered her hair in it, and tugged, tightening his grip until she gasped. She looked at him, at his handsome nose and cruel mouth and cheeks beginning to flush with black excitement.

She had been wrong the day before, of course. This was what had been in Kimblee’s head all along. She hadn’t seen that expression since the war ended.

He pulled harder, forcing her head up so that she couldn’t watch his other hand undressing her. Riza got the impression he was holding himself back, his breathing ragged as he tugged at but didn’t tear her clothes. He undid her pants and they fell to the floor in a hiss of cloth and the discordant thump of the belt buckle.

Then he yanked sharply, and Riza followed the order, unbuttoning and unzipping his clothes until they were both naked. While he found a condom, she lay down on her stomach. She forced herself to remain still, even as he climbed up on the bed beside her and she felt the wild fluttering efforts of her own heart.

He held her down with a forearm across her back and entered her. He felt bigger like this, the angle of his invasion forcing a different pressure. The bones of his elbow and wrist rubbed painfully against her shoulder blades, and his weight pinned her to the mattress, pushing her face against the pillow so hard she could barely open her eyes.

Was this what Roy had imagined?

Kimblee was quiet, but his little groans and gasps betrayed the desire spilling over the walls he’d constructed to contain it. She would have expected him to keep talking, to bring verisimilitude to the act. But perhaps some things were too dangerous to speak aloud. Perhaps some things were best left in the dark recesses of one’s own mind.

But he was still telling her, with rough kisses at her pulse and the hard, hungry thrust of his hips. He hooked his other arm under her neck, so that she was held fast to him and had to fight for breath. Her mind flew up and away and turned back to look. She pictured herself, under his body and at his mercy, and _enjoying_ it, and the seething heat in her belly uncurled and sought throughout her body.

So she told him too. She clutched at the sheets and didn’t struggle. She muffled her noises in the pillow, feeling how he pressed closer with each ragged moan. He hitched his hips up and sank in deeper, faster, and Riza whimpered and turned her head so he could see her face knitted in a pained expression.

“God,” he whispered, “oh, god…”

Not unspoken, then. Not so terrible it couldn’t be taken out and looked at and carefully locked away again, in the secret trusted spaces between two souls.   

Riza came fast, choking back a cry and shuddering in his hold. Kimblee’s nails dug in as he groaned and followed her, almost immediately. He was heavy and damp with sweat, his chest sticking to her back as he sagged against her. Riza moved her neck, just enough to allow her to swallow and breathe again, and blinked and settled into his grasp.

And when Kimblee let out a long, low sigh and rested his forehead on her shoulder, Riza let him.

 

***

 

In the months her hair had grown out, Riza had forgotten how much colder it felt when her ears and neck were exposed. There was a patch on her nape where she had accidentally scraped herself with the scissors; the air on the rawness sent sensation humming all up and down her spine.

Kimblee had made no comment when he saw the haircut. He hadn’t looked at her back last night, either. The thought nagged at her. She had expected him to want to examine the tattoo again; but his curiosity, of course, had never been about the alchemy at all.

Hughes was scribbling away madly at some form, but looked up immediately when she entered his office. “Riza—”

He sprang to his feet and shut the door behind her.

“They had me in a meeting.” His voice brimmed with anger. “Trapped is probably a better word for it.”

“It’s all right.”

“I heard what happened.”

She was tempted to ask what and how. But it didn’t really matter what Hughes knew, or thought he knew. “Listen—”

“He forced it out of you, didn’t he? Forced you to bring him with you?”

“Hughes!”

Hughes reacted to her sharp tone. He seemed to register her properly for the first time, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in her shortened hair. The tension in his shoulders slipped down into something more controlled, more purposeful.

“Are you going to talk to Roy again?”

“Of course,” said Hughes, low and fierce.

“Good.” Riza bit her tongue, and then relaxed. One word at a time, one word and then another and another all forced past the pressure in her chest that sought to hold them back. “I want you to tell him that—that I’m all right. He shouldn’t worry.”

For a second, she was afraid Hughes was going to ask why, or maybe just see it written all over her face. But he only leaned back and said, “Is that all?”

“Yes.” It was all she had. It would have to be enough.

On her way back down the hall, the nebulous pressure in her lungs suddenly resolved itself into a painful squeeze. Riza walked as calmly as possible to the bathroom; it was mercifully empty, and she bent over the sink and twisted the tap on just in time to cover the first wretched sob.

She let it pour from her, ugly and bitter and sharp, a torrent of pain that slipped out of her grasp every time she tried to identify it. It was too much and too strange, a vast and devouring emptiness that threatened that she had unleashed something terrible last night, and that nothing would ever be all right.

She cried for several minutes, stifling the sounds in her sleeve and hoping that the rush of the water would be loud enough; and then, as soon as she could, stopped. This was no time to act like a child. She blew her nose vigorously, wiped her face clean of tears, and fixed her hair until she looked like herself again.

She would need to make herself a cup of tea, she decided. Strong, the color of amber and bitter as smoke. The day was only beginning, and there was still so much to be done.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [1stTimeCaller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stTimeCaller/pseuds/1stTimeCaller) for giving me the encouragement I needed to finish writing and publish this.
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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